I find her seated in the high backed chair, hunched like a squirrel with a nut, her cheekbones more pronounced, eyes still pin-sharp, hair snow-white. I catch my breath. Does my head touch the ceiling? Behind her the new garden large enough for recliner and scented roses, a studio in the old stone courtyard with her tools, and palette, paint-tubes, brushes – lined up, ready for painting trips. Yet here she is, a thimble tininess. I bring food from the kitchen, take the plate to her as I’d feed a robin, imagine at any moment she’ll float through the open window.